by Ruth Hogan
She went to the river that day to walk and think. She couldn’t remember getting there, but it was a bright, spring day and the river was sparkle-strewn in the sunlight. A flotilla of baby ducklings bobbed past behind their mother and father, and Alice wished that she had brought some bread. She couldn’t think straight any more and she was so tired. She had prayed and prayed so hard that God would return His gift to her. The water looked cool and soothing. She imagined what it would be like to slip beneath the surface and float away.
I have been half in love with easeful death.
She remembered a line from a poem she had learned at school. Would it be easeful? She was almost tempted to try. And then suddenly, there he was. A little boy, crying and alone. He had lost one of his shoes and was clutching a soggy piece of bread in one hand and a tiny white feather in the other. It was Mattie. It had to be. He looked a little bit different, but then he had been asleep for so long, and anyway, who else could he be? There was no one else around. Her prayers had finally been answered. She gathered him in her arms, dried his tears and took him home.
For weeks afterwards, she and Mattie hardly left the house. She watched over him night and day to make sure that he wouldn’t fall into such a deep sleep again. At first he was strange and unsettled, as though he didn’t recognise his own life, but gradually he became himself again. They picked up from where they had left off and carried on.
But the little boy she brought home wasn’t Mattie.
His name was Gabriel. And for all these years, the woman, Gabriel’s mother, had believed him to be dead, and the shed at the bottom of Alice’s garden had remained locked.
Writing it all down crystallised the appalling truth for Alice. It was incredible that she had got away with it for all these years, but perhaps it was largely because she had been able to fool even herself into believing that it was true. And, of course, she had been lucky; she and Gabriel had the same colouring, the same common blood group. Luck had conspired with her to create her own truth, and her circumstances were such that it was never doubted by anyone else. She didn’t shop in the village, preferring to use a nearby supermarket, and her doctor’s surgery was a large practice in town, where she rarely saw the same GP twice. Her nearest neighbour was an elderly man who had little interest in anything other than football and horse-racing and spent most of the day in front of his television screen. By the time she was forced to engage in village life by enrolling Gabriel in pre-school, he had long been Mattie to both her and himself, so why would anyone else have reason to question his identity? Her head ached as much as her arm. The physical as well as the mental act of confession was exhausting and terrifying, but she was nearly done.
I am more sorry than I can ever express for the pain that I have caused you and would not dare ask for your forgiveness, but only beg that you try to understand. I have told Gabriel nothing. I have no idea what to tell him, but, as his mother, I must leave it to you to decide what should be done next. I can only tell you that he is happy and healthy, and that I have loved him as my own son, because for most of his life, however hard it is for you to accept, I truly believed that he was.
Alice
Tomorrow would be the anniversary of the day that Alice found Gabriel. She had to post her letter today.
Chapter 62
ART
Masha
We shall find peace. We shall hear the angels,
we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds
Uncle Vanya – Anton Chekhov
It is far too hot for May and I have climbed to the top of the hill in the cemetery in search of a fresh breeze. It was worth the climb. Here, the breeze is strong enough to fly a kite or lift an angel’s wings. Haizum is sitting next to me with his nose in the air, catching each scent in his twitching nostrils as it wafts past. His long, wiry hair is ruffled by the breeze like a field of corn, and his ears are flapping gently, lifted by the wind. His soft, dark eyes are staring into the distance. I’d love to know what he is thinking. It will definitely involve food.
Edward and I meet less frequently in the cemetery now. He looks younger each time I see him. Love has rejuvenated him, but it is not love alone that has made him truly happy again. He has witnessed my resurrection, which in turn has set him free. I shall never stop dancing for Gabriel, but our little boy – for he did, in so many ways that really matter, belong to both of us – must now be allowed to rest in peace. And I have Haizum and Gideon and another chance to love my life and really live it.
On my way here I stopped to call on Ruby Ivy, Nellie Nora and Elsie Betty. They are pretty much redundant as my worry dolls these days; I rarely need to worry them. So instead I tell them all my gossip, which might not always be knicker-twistingly exciting, but I should hate them to feel neglected. Marble headstones and granite chippings sparkle under the midday sun, and trees are tipped with fresh new leaves. A little way down the hill, a crow is grappling with a large twig. Nests are being built in tall pines all over the cemetery, and very soon there will be ducklings on the pond in the park. From my seat on this wooden bench, I can just about see Lily Phyllis, Phoebe and Charles, whom I shall visit on my way down.
Gideon has a friend who is a record dealer, and he managed to get me some early recordings of Phoebe singing Mimi from La Bohème, and Isolde from Tristan and Isolde. It is clear from her records that Phoebe had an extraordinary musical talent, which makes her recovery after its loss all the more courageous and remarkable. I have been able to play them on Kitty Muriel’s gramophone. When they married, Elvis sold his house and moved into Kitty Muriel’s flat. I am invited there each Thursday at 5.30 p.m. for cocktails and canapés. Haizum is also included, and although he performs on the polished wooden floors like Bambi on ice, he seeks refuge on the exquisite rug, and clings to it as though it were a life raft on a storm-tossed ocean. He is allowed four canapés. But only four. The pink walls of Kitty Muriel’s flat are almost exactly the colour of the fondant fancies in my old nightmare, but Gilbert and George, art deco and Venetian glass are a far cry from the Formica-topped tables, plastic chairs and lurid wallpaper of the abominable Happy Endings home. Kitty Muriel, like me, has no children to care for her in her dotage, but she does have an adoring husband and is living a very happy, and frankly rather exciting, alternative to the old age I had envisaged and feared for myself. And so shall I.
As I look down across the Field of Inebriation it shimmers in the heat, and I remember Sally. I know I should call her Phoebe now, but I can’t help but think of her as Sally. I don’t think she’d mind. I miss her. But here, I always feel that she is somewhere close by. Some people leave an indelible imprint on your life, like the indentation of a fossil in rock. Sally was one of those people, and she made me realise that Gabriel never deserted me. He left an imprint on my heart that I have learned to cherish, instead of grieve that it is all that remains of him.
Sally would be delighted to know that Kitty Muriel is hard at work rehearsing for The Merry Widow, in which she is indeed playing the title role. Marcus, much to everyone’s delight and rather mischievous amusement, has been cast as Count Danilo, her leading man. I am so looking forward to the show, but fear that I may have to be sedated beforehand if I am to retain any measure of self-control throughout the performance. Lady T, look away now. I am helping Kitty Muriel to learn her part. For this particular character she is channelling Zsa Zsa Gabor. I’m not sure it’s quite what Lehár originally intended, but I’m confident he would have come round to her way of thinking. After all, the director has. Eventually.
Elvis also has a role to play in this production. He is doing make-up. Recently, I’ve noticed that Kitty Muriel’s maquillage has undergone a rather flattering transformation. It is clearly applied with a lighter touch and from a subtler palette. I complimented her upon her new look and she proudly attributed it to her ‘adorable husband’. Apparently, Elvis the undertaker has for years been providing an entirely complimentary service for dead people in his care. He performs
a post-mortem mini-makeover for each client, with the help of the kindly receptionist, Mabel, who does their hair (if they have any), in order that they can look their best for friends and relatives visiting them in the chapel of rest. I couldn’t see Helen accepting this as part of her job description – answering the telephone, filing, cut and blow-dries for corpses – but I do think it’s a very kind and generous thing to do.
Kitty Muriel told me that Elvis and Mabel even do it for the ones who have no friends and family, because Elvis says that they deserve the same treatment as everyone else. In his book there’s no such thing as a second-class corpse. They all leave his care with blushed cheeks, pink lips, neat, shiny hair and a touch of mascara. The ladies get eyeshadow (and some of the men do too, but only when Elvis feels it would be appropriate), but what they all get is the utmost respect and a clean hanky for their journey. I can absolutely see why Kitty adores this man and is delighted to have him working alongside her in The Merry Widow. And if the School-Girls’ chorus in The Mikado was a fair representation of the dramatis personae, he won’t notice much difference from his day job.
Haizum is beginning to get fidgety. The cool breeze has revived him after the hot and tiring climb up the hill, and there are squirrels and pigeons waiting to be chased. But I am reluctant to move. It is peaceful here, and the view is glorious. The whole cemetery is scattered with clumps of pale lemon primroses and drifts of sunshine yellow daffodils. From this place, high on the hill, I can see the graves of almost all my Family on the Other Side. But I am very much on the side of the living and I feel like the queen of the castle. The wind is growing stronger, and I stand up and stretch out my arms to feel it buffeting against me, as though I were a sail on a ship. I reach inside the pocket of my crumpled linen jacket and grasp a handful of the softness that is nestled there. It is almost too soft to feel. Closing my fist I take it out of my pocket and raise it high above my head like the marble angel on Lily Phyllis Phoebe’s grave. And then I let it go. The air is filled with pure white feathers, dancing and spinning in the wind across the bright blue sky. I have finally taken Sally’s advice and set my angels free.
Haizum has grown impatient and has set off back down the hill without me. He is taking his favourite route, off the path, through the Field of Inebriation. It must be a popular night-time haunt for the local foxes, as Haizum’s nose has barely left the ground. As I start to wander downwards through the long grass, I am too warm in my jacket and have to take it off. Haizum’s restlessness and excitement seem to be catching, and I can’t bear the thought of having to carry anything, so I tie it round my waist with the sleeves. For some strange reason I feel as fizzy as a champagne cocktail. What begins as a fairly innocuous ‘hop, skip and jump’ soon develops into a full-scale impersonation of Anna dancing the polka with the king in The King and I, which, if you haven’t seen it, is a heart-pounding gallop of a dance in a very puffy skirt (Anna’s, not the king’s). Haizum has stopped what he is doing and is looking at me with the expression of a teenage boy who has caught his mother wearing a boob tube and mini-skirt in public. I pause for a moment and plant a huge kiss on the top of his head, and then challenge him to a race down the hill – an activity that meets with his approval a great deal better than my dancing does. As we career together through the long spring grass, I am shrieking and tripping and stumbling and barely in control of my legs; and Haizum is leaping and bounding across my path, barking with excitement.
Somewhat inevitably, we end up in a tangled heap amongst the primroses, somewhere near the bottom path. I am breathless, covered in grass stains and have tears of laughter streaming down my face, and Haizum is kindly washing them away with his huge, rasping tongue, whilst trying to sit on top of me. When I am sufficiently recovered, I glance round furtively, to see if anyone has witnessed our high spirits and is speed-dialling the local mental healthcare team. I can see one cemetery worker, mercifully some distance away, but I recognise him, and know that he has seen me here many times before and will not be in the least bit surprised or concerned.
We stop to say hello to Lily Phyllis, Sally/Phoebe and Charles, and tell them about the forthcoming production of The Merry Widow and its rising stars. Charles and Phoebe’s grave is covered in violets, and I pick a small bunch (I know they won’t mind) to take to Epiphany’s this evening. Epiphany and Stanley have invited us all to dinner. Today is the anniversary of Gabriel’s death and we are all going to remember him. But we are also going to celebrate the lives that we still have. Roni is bringing her new boyfriend, Jericho, who is a call centre manager and part-time shaman. We can’t wait. Helen predicts that he’ll have a ponytail and a glass eye, and Edward predicts that I’ll be choking on my Sauvignon Blanc within two minutes. Lady T is surely hoping that we remember our manners and strive for graciousness. I fear she may be disappointed.
Haizum and I head home. The post is waiting on the doormat and, as I pick it up, I am vaguely curious about the handwritten envelope on top, but I am running late and it will have to wait. I dump it on the dresser unopened. Haizum pushes ahead of me through the front door and trots off to the kitchen, his nails clicking on the floor. He greedily slurps half the contents of his water bowl, and deposits a generous quantity of water and slobber across the kitchen tiles in a precise distribution designed to ensure that I tread in it as many times as possible whilst collecting a mug from the cupboard and switching the kettle on. I hastily shove the violets into a tumbler of water, and, taking my tea with me, skip upstairs to shower and change. I only have half an hour before Gideon arrives to collect me. On my way out of the kitchen I hear Haizum slump noisily to the floor with a sulky sigh. He knows I am going out and wishes to make his disapproval clear. Barely thirty minutes later the doorbell rings, and as I run down the stairs to greet Gideon, Haizum gallops along the corridor to join me. Hanging limply from the corner of his mouth is a solitary purple flower. Bugger. He has eaten the violets.
Chapter 63
ART
Alice
Through this holy anointing may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.
Alice’s mind was feeling very still. This was the closest thing to peace that she had known for as long as she could remember. She wasn’t sure if it was the prayers, the drugs, or a combination of the two. Father Peter had anointed her with oil and blessed her with the hope of God’s forgiveness. She no longer felt part of the flesh and bones that lay on the bed. In the end it was such a relief simply to let go.
Epilogue
In the cemetery fallen leaves swoosh and swirl in a dance choreographed by the fitful wind. As the afternoon slips away into a Titian-tinted autumn twilight, a woman, a wolfhound and a teenage boy carrying two orange chrysanthemums walk together amongst the angels, crosses and headstones. Where the path begins to meander uphill they turn onto the grass and head towards a new grave still brown with freshly dug earth. Beside it is a smaller grave, less recent and clearly that of a child. The woman hangs back, respectful and perhaps a little uncomfortable, but the wolfhound stays close to the boy, nudging his free hand with his nose. The boy stands staring at the dirt mound that has yet to settle. Then he crouches and gently lays down a flower each for mother and son. His fingers rest for just a moment on the cold marble cross that marks the smaller grave, and then he stands and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.
The wolfhound presses himself close against the boy’s side and pushes his head under his hand. The woman waits. A solitary crow flies overhead and lands on a stone cross, watching the three of them with beady, blackcurrant eyes. The woman reaches into the pocket of her long coat and throws what she finds for the crow. He snatches his prize and gobbles it down before taking flight once more and disappearing into the highest branches of a towering pine. The wolfhound barks, just once, and the boy turns away from the graves towards the woman. She smiles at him with infinite tenderness and takes his arm.
> ‘Let’s go home,’ she says.
Author’s note
When I began writing The Particular Wisdom of Sally Red Shoes, I wanted it to be a book about hope and living life to the full. But I’m with Dolly Parton when she said, ‘If you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain’, and so I also wanted to tackle some more difficult and painful issues.
Life has a habit of throwing you a curve ball every once in a while, and there’s nothing you can do about that, but you can always choose how you deal with it. You can lie down and roll over, or you can stand up and fight. But you don’t need do it on your own: there are people who can help. All you need is the wisdom and courage to let them.
When I discovered a lump in my breast I told no one (in fact, I was even reluctant to write this sentence!) At first I didn’t even tell my husband; I went to my GP who referred me to the hospital, and then I told him. But I made light of it, it’s probably nothing. Once I was diagnosed with cancer, I didn’t want anyone else to know: I didn’t want to deal with other people’s reactions, I just wanted to get on with what needed to be done. I thought that if I only had surgery and radiotherapy, I could probably get away with telling only a handful of my closest family and friends. But the side-effects of other treatments are much trickier to hide; a few weeks after my first chemotherapy I was completely bald, and, quite frankly, past caring who knew.
And I was foolish trying to hide it from friends and family who loved me and wanted to help: they came with me to chemo, and organised rotas to take me to radiotherapy; they sat in hospital corridors and waiting rooms with me, and one friend (who happens to be a vet) even prompted the diagnosis of my crashed thyroid by suggesting to my consultant that I had all the relevant symptoms and perhaps he should order some blood tests. (He did – she was right, and the next day he jokingly offered her a job!)